


The Adventure of the High Grade, Uncut MDMA; or, Sherlock Holmes Rolls his Face Off

by redbuttonhole



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Drug Use, Drugs, Ecstasy - Freeform, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, John playing with Sherlock's hair, M/M, Mdma, Molly - Freeform, Not porn, Possibly asexual!Sherlock, Recreational Drug Use, Relationships that don't need labels, Sherlock rolling his face off, Sort of if you want to read it that way, but not that kind of molly, fluffyfluffluff, if you want to read it that way - Freeform, not smut, possible johnlock - Freeform, possibly sickening amounts of fluff, though she gets mentioned too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:32:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2247489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbuttonhole/pseuds/redbuttonhole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock accidentally doses himself with pure MDMA and has a LOT of feels.  John is with him to babysit, and has some feels of his own.  Extreme fluff ensues, but no sex.  This is rated M for explicit drug use, NOT porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the High Grade, Uncut MDMA; or, Sherlock Holmes Rolls his Face Off

Sherlock had taken three or four sips of the tea before looking up at John with a troubled expression.

"What's the matter?" said John. His was cooling on the table next to him while he worked on a blog post.

"Tastes a bit off." Sherlock frowned. "Did you – Did you clean out the kettle before making it?"

"No. No there was water in it so I just – "

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Then we might have a problem."

\---------------------

It was to do with a case, naturally. A series of unexplained deaths that Sherlock had successfully traced to some adulterated MDMA being sold in clubs around London. The solution, of course, had come to him only after a long evening spent analyzing various white powders to determine which batches were pure and which were poisoned. Which meant that a not-entirely-legal amount white powder, some of which was high-grade ecstasy and the rest of which was deadly poison, was currently collected in the kitchen of 221b.

John looked steadily at Sherlock, mentally preparing for the worst. "The poison," he said.

"No," said Sherlock. "The poisoned batch is in a labeled baggy."

"But the inside of the kettle seemed like a good place to store the pure drugs," finished John.

"It was part of the test! It was a very complex procedure."

John managed to smother his annoyance with relief that he hadn't accidentally slipped a truly lethal concoction into Sherlock's evening tea.

"What do we do?" said Sherlock.

John considered the options. He could take Sherlock to the A&E, where they might stuff him full of charcoal to neutralize the effects, or give him a sedative to knock him out until the drug passed out of his system. They also might make them answer some unpleasant questions about where the stuff came from. All in all, it seemed like overkill.

"I think," said John, "your best bet is to simply ride it out. I'll be here, I'll keep an eye on your vitals. And I can get you medical attention if there's anything out of the ordinary."

"Will you know what to look for?"

John leaned back in his chair. "I've got a bit of experience with this, yeah."

"As a doctor," said Sherlock.

"As a doctor," agreed John. He paused a beat. "And..."

"No," said Sherlock. "You?"

"Not since uni, and only a couple of times. We called it X back then." Sherlock was still staring at him. "I did have a life before the military, you know."

"What was it like?"

John grinned. "Fun."

\-------------------

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was anxiously pacing the sitting room, his dark suit jacket fluttering a little with each sharp turn.

"Do you feel anything yet? It should be starting."

"No," said Sherlock grimly. "Nothing yet." He stopped pacing and a look of tentative hope appeared on his face. "Is it possible that it won't work? Perhaps I'm immune."

"Doubtful," said John. "Do you know what you're looking for?"

"Of course," said Sherlock with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Serotonin, dopamine, and norepinephrine release, acting on the α2-adrenergic and 5-HT2A receptors. Dilated pupils, perspiration, dehydration..."

"Right," said John, "but I meant more... subjectively." A thought occurred to him. "You might want to text Lestrade now about the case, if you haven't already."

Sherlock stilled and looked at him. "I texted him half an hour ago. Why?"

"The thing is," said John, "you're probably going to be a bit stupid for the next few hours. So if there's anything, you know, work related... you should take care of it now."

"Stupid? It's going to make _me_ – " Sherlock stopped mid-sentence as if he couldn't even contemplate the thought, then crumpled onto the couch, his head in his hands.

"Look, it's nothing to worry about," tried John, but Sherlock was inconsolable.

"How long will it last?" he said to the floor.

"A few hours, that's it. You'll be right as rain tomorrow morning. Or, er... afternoon. Evening at the latest."

Sherlock groaned.

"Relax," said John. "It won't kill you to spend 24 hours without your full mental capacity. I'm sure even on ecstasy, you'll run rings around the rest of humanity."

"Cold comfort," said Sherlock with a shiver. John watched him carefully. There was a fire going in the grate, and the flat was cosy and warm.

"Are you... cold?"

Sherlock looked up. "No," he said. "Warm, actually." He gave another shiver. He stood up and swayed a little. John got to his feet and hurried over to him. "Ugh," said Sherlock. "I feel... awful." He did look a bit flushed, and his brow was damp.

"Awful how?"

"I – I don't know. Just... out of sorts. Restless and ... weak." He shivered again. "And my skin is crawling."

"All right, just sit back down." John put a hand to his shoulder and guided him back to the couch. "It's fine, it's all normal. This is how it starts."

Sherlock leaned his head back against the couch, panting slightly. "Why does anyone do this for recreation? They must be insane. At least cocaine is enjoyable, whereas this – I've never felt so dreadful in all my life." He shivered again and let out a moan. "John," he said pitifully.

"You're resisting it," said John. "Try to relax, Sherlock. It's going to hit you in waves, and when it does, don't fight it. Take deep breaths."

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded a little. He inhaled slowly, and as he let out the breath, another shiver ran through his body.

"There," said John. "How was that?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Different. I don't know. Strange."

Another shiver overtook him, and this time he inhaled with it. "Oh," he said. "Oh."

"Better?"

"That was... very warm."

"You're doing fine," said John. "Really well. Although – "

"What?" said Sherlock sharply, his eyes wide with fear again.

"Nothing, just – you're going to be uncomfortable in that suit. Can you put something else on? Your pyjamas, maybe."

Sherlock looked at him, but instead of his usual piercing stare, he seemed a little unfocused. His pupils were also significantly dilated, and he was breathing more heavily than usual. "Yes," he said after a moment. "Okay."

John kept an eye on him as he walked to the bedroom, but he seemed steady enough now. A minute or two later, he re-emerged, this time in his ratty pyjamas and blue silk robe.

"No," said John. "Not that robe. Put on the camel one, or the tartan."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"I wasn't aware you had such strong preferences among my dressing gowns."

"I don't. Just do as I say. You'll see."

Sherlock frowned, but he turned around and did as he was told. John wasn't sure if it was an effect of the drug or just Sherlock's general anxiety about the situation, but something was making Sherlock remarkably docile. Not bad, as unexpected side effects went.

A moment later, he heard Sherlock's voice from the other room. "Oh," he was saying. "Oh, that feels..." He came back into the sitting room wearing the tartan dressing gown. "John Watson, you are a genius."

John grinned. "Yeah, for some reason silk doesn't do much for you when you're rolling. But heavier, coarser fabrics..."

Sherlock sat down on the couch next to him, rubbing his biceps through the fabric. After a moment, he looked over at John. "What about your jumper?" he said. John glanced down. He was wearing his favorite oatmeal jumper.

"What about it?"

"It's very thick."

"Yes," said John, frowning. Sherlock was looking at him with a strange expression. Hungry, almost. "Sherlock, do you want my – " Sherlock's eyes went big, his dark pupils impossibly bigger. "No," said John. "That is a terrible idea. You'll get overheated."

"I won't," said Sherlock. "I won't put it on, I promise. I just want to – to touch it."

John opened his mouth to object, but decided to sigh instead. What was the point? They both knew he was going to wind up giving Sherlock the jumper. He pulled it over his head and handed it to Sherlock, who immediately balled it up on his lap and started squeezing and clutching at it like a kneading cat. "Mmmm..." Sherlock moaned softly, his eyes closed and a beatific smile on his face. "Can I keep it forever?"

John huffed a laugh. "You won't like it so much in the morning."

"I will! I promise I will. This jumper is... [knead, knead] the best thing... [knead, knead] I've ever touched. I'll keep it forever."

"All right, then. But this better not just be a trick to keep me from wearing it."

"What?" said Sherlock absently, his eyes still closed in bliss. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that—" he began to explain, but he stopped himself. "Oh," he said, a little surprised. "Oh, you're there already."

"Where?"

"You must be just about peaking. You've lost... well, you can't follow jokes anymore. And you've lost your ability to deceive."

Sherlock's eyes opened and peered at John. "Is that a side effect? I didn't know this was a truth serum. Why don't people use it in interrogations?"

"Because," John explained carefully, "when you're on X. MDMA. You can only speak the truth, but you won't say anything remotely useful to anyone. It's all emotional stuff. Sentiment."

"Oh," said Sherlock, his brow just slightly crinkled. "I wonder what it'll do to me, then."

John smirked. "Because you don't do sentiment."

"No," said Sherlock, but he didn't sound entirely sure of himself. He turned to John, still clutching at the jumper. "John," he said. "Do you know what would be positively delicious right now?"

John wasn't sure what he had in mind. Sherlock smiled broadly.

"A cigarette, John. Where are they?"

"Um, I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Of course it is." Sherlock thrust aside the now forgotten jumper and launched himself across the room toward all the usual hiding places.

"No – no, it's not."

"You just don't want me to have one. I bet it would taste fantastic."

John sighed. "You're not wrong about that. But you won't be able to stop, if you start. You might easily smoke three packs in the next few hours. That won't feel very nice, come morning."

Sherlock stared at him from across the room, considering this. John had a feeling that the whole concept of "tomorrow morning" was beyond Sherlock at the moment.

"Hang on," said John. "What's that sound?" There was some sort of scraping sound coming from the other side of the room. It stopped as soon as he mentioned it, but after a few seconds, it started up again. It seemed to be coming from...

"Sherlock? Are you grinding your teeth?"

"No," said Sherlock. "Why would I – oh." He looked a bit guilty. "Yes."

John cast his eyes around him, as if hoping the sitting room would offer a solution. If only he'd known they'd be doing this, he would have been able to assemble some supplies. Now they would just have to make do with –

"Oh!" said John. "I have just the thing." He moved to the kitchen and rifled around in a cabinet, then came back to the sitting room bearing a bag full of lollies. "I got these ages ago to hand out to the kids who come in with my patients, but I keep forgetting to bring it to the clinic." He tore open the bag and unwrapped a purple one. "Here," he said, holding it out to Sherlock. "Suck on this."

Sherlock moved slowly and a little suspiciously back toward the couch, and they both sat down. "Why?" he said, his eyes on the candy.

"Just try it. You'll like it."

Sherlock accepted the proffered lolly at last and put it in his mouth. After a moment, he gave an experimental suck, followed by a loud slurp. He removed it from his mouth.

"John," he said urgently, holding the lolly toward him. "Try this. It tastes amazing."

"Yeah," said John. "That's all right, I've got a whole bag of them right here. That one can be yours, Sherlock."

Sherlock grinned and popped the candy back in his mouth, sucking fiercely on it until it stained his lips a deep purple.

"How are you feeling?" said John, thinking this was a good time to check in.

"Good!" said Sherlock immediately. He stretched his arms up over his head and then tugged on them, one at a time. "Except my muscles are all scrunched up."

"That can happen. Um..." John remembered how they had dealt with this issue while he was in school. But it wasn't the sort of activity grown men generally did together. But then, since when had he and Sherlock had an entirely conventional flatmate relationship? "Come here," he said. "Or on second thought, sit on the floor, between my legs."

Sherlock was apparently beyond questioning direct orders at this point. Without comment, he slid off the couch onto the floor, then scooted over toward where John was sitting.

"Sit up straight, now," said John. He took a breath, then settled his fingers onto Sherlock's shoulders, trying not to feel too weird about the situation. Sherlock moaned softly. His muscles under John's fingers were indeed knotted tightly together. John applied more pressure, methodically working them out. Sherlock's moans grew louder, and he seemed almost to melt under John's hands.

"Ohhhhhh, John, John what are you doing don't stop," he murmured as he rolled his head from side to side. John moved his fingers up toward Sherlock's neck, working the muscles along his spinal column. "Oh God that feels incredible. Thank you, oh thank you John."

John couldn't help smiling to himself. He wasn't generally keen on giving backrubs, but the strength and intensity of Sherlock's appreciation did make it rather more satisfying than usual. And yet, a moment later Sherlock was pulling away beneath his hands. He craned around to look at John.

"Can we switch places?"

"What? Why?"

"I want to do it to you. It's so good, John. You need to feel this."

John laughed. "Silly thing. I'm not high, it won't work on me."

"Oh," said Sherlock. He looked crestfallen, and John felt a strange tightness around his heart.

"Don't worry, sweet." Sweet? Where had that come from? Sherlock didn't seem to have noticed the endearment, so John decided just to go with it. "I'm having a very good time. I'm probably enjoying this almost as much as you are."

"Really? But – "

"Just wait. Maybe you'll find out someday – taking care of someone who is rolling is almost as good as doing it yourself. At least, if it's someone you care about."

Sherlock watched his face closely for a few seconds before settling back between his legs. John went back to rubbing, pleased to note that Sherlock's muscles were much looser and more relaxed now.

They sat in silence for a while, until he felt Sherlock's neck tense up slightly. He paused, wondering what it meant.

"John," said Sherlock, his voice low and a little tentative. "Do you ever think about sex?"

John tried hard not to laugh. "Um," he said, rubbing again. "Sometimes. It's normal, though. Nothing to worry about if you – "

"With me?"

John's hands stilled. His instinct was to say no, of course not, and change the subject. Or maybe make it into a joke, but any joke was going to sail right over Sherlock's head right now. No, that wouldn't do. Somehow, even though John wasn't the one who was rolling, he felt honor bound to be as honest and open as Sherlock couldn't help being at the moment.

"A couple of times," he answered truthfully, now rubbing Sherlock just behind his ears. Sherlock let out a noise something between a purr and a growl and pressed himself closer and up into John's hands. _And if I wasn't before, I am now_ , thought John, but his honesty did not extend quite that far. "I mean," he said, "it's just a thing that pops into your mind sometimes, you know." He wondered if Sherlock did know. A good deal of evidence indicated that it wasn't the sort of thing that popped into Sherlock's mind, ever. "Curiosity," John went on. "It doesn't mean anything. Necessarily."

"We could," said Sherlock. "If you wanted."

John forced himself not to pull away in response to that. No need to be an arse about it.

"Do you want it?" he ventured.

"I want what you want," said Sherlock, and for once, there was no tinge of manipulation in his voice. "I want to make you feel good."

John took a breath. It had occurred to him before that this conversation, or something like it, might happen at some point in their friendship. He had actually expected it early on, and then, when it didn't materialize, eventually stopped waiting for it. Of course the possibility had always remained, but he had definitely not anticipated having it tonight.

"Would it make _you_ feel good?" He continued working his fingers steadily into the base of Sherlock's scalp, the curls just brushing his knuckles.

Sherlock was silent for a bit, whether from thoughtfulness or bliss, John couldn't tell.

"I really can't imagine," he said at last, his voice low and rumbling, "anything in the world feeling better than I do right now."

"Really?" said John with a grin. "What about this?" He gave up rubbing and instead moved his hands higher, combing his fingers through Sherlock's curls and tugging gently on them. Sherlock began to writhe under him.

"Ohhhhhh," he moaned, rolling his head up into John's hands like a cat, "that _that_ do that forever never stop that." Sherlock panted and moaned wantonly, like someone in the deepest throes of rapture. Then he stilled abruptly. "Can I have another lolly?"

John bit back a laugh. "The bag's right by your knee, go ahead."

They lapsed back into companionable silence for a bit, only disturbed by Sherlock's occasional purrs and enthusiastic slurping noises. Two hours had passed since Sherlock ingested the substance. Growing slightly bored, John decided to check in. "What are you thinking about?"

Sherlock pulled the lolly out of his mouth with a wet and lascivious pop. "Um," he said. "I don't know. Nothing." He turned a little. "John, it's very strange. I don't think I had a single thought in my head when you asked that."

John smiled and petted him. "That's all right. Must be nice to give that great brain of yours a little break."

"John," said Sherlock, and he sounded very serious. "Am I stupid now? You can tell me."

"Um, well. Yes, you might be a bit stupid right now, to be honest."

"Wow," Sherlock marveled. "So this is how the rest of you feel all the time."

John narrowed his eyes. "No, not... quite."

"It feels wonderful," said Sherlock, letting his head fall back between John's thighs and looking upside down into his face. "I want always to be stupid, John. Do all stupid people walk around feeling this good all the time? I thought it would be upsetting if I couldn't think, but unnngggh God your fingers. Your fingers in my hair feel better than any thought I've ever had. Can we do this every day?"

"We could, but it won't feel as good when you're not high."

Sherlock lifted his head again. "Oh, that's right. I almost forgot I was on drugs. Xxxxxx," he said, drawing out the sound of the letter. "Ecccccstasy. I understand why they call it that."

"Do you."

"It's a better name than MDMA. More informative. Accurate. When I was at uni everyone said E. Only older fellows called it X."

"Yeah, ta for that."

"Now they call it Mandy, for some reason. Or Molly, sometimes."

"In the States."

"I wonder if Molly has ever done this." Sherlock giggled. "Has Molly ever done Molly? We should ask her."

"Maybe we shouldn't."

"Moooooolly. Mollymollymollymollymolly. I do like Molly."

John wasn't sure if Sherlock was fixating now on the person or the drug.

"She's very..." Oh, so presumably this was Miss Hooper they were discussing. "Very..."

"Sweet?"

"Pretty."

John hadn't been expecting that. He supposed it was true – Molly Hooper was rather attractive, in her way. But he hadn't imagined Sherlock Holmes ever noticing.

"She's really lovely, isn't she?" Sherlock continued. "She just sort of... glows, all the time. Although that might just be because I like her so much. But I think it's probably both. And she's so _generous_. Always setting aside the most interesting body parts for me. I don't know what I would do without her." He sighed and seemed to think on this for a while. "Do you think I should marry her?" he said at length.

"What? No," said John with a little more force than necessary.

"Why not?"

"Because – well, do you love her?"

"Molly? Of course I do. I love her to bits."

"Well, all right," John conceded, "but you probably love almost everyone in the world right now. Are you attracted to her?" John winced a little before adding the next word, but he thought it best to be clear. "Sexually?"

"Mmmm," said Sherlock. "She's very pretty."

"Okay yes but that's not – " John cut himself off. He was becoming a little too invested in this discussion. He reminded himself that Sherlock was under the influence of a very powerful substance right now, and would probably not seriously considering marrying Molly Hooper when sober.

"Nnngggh John, what are you doing? Why do I feel so amazing right now?"

John realized his fingers had not even been moving through much of this conversation.

"Oh. Ah – I think it's because you were saying nice things about Molly. It usually feels good to say nice things about people. You should try it some more."

"Being nice to people makes you feel good?" Sherlock said, incredulous. "What a strange and marvelous invention this is. Everyone should do it all the time, the world would be so peaceful and happy."

"Yes," said John. "But also a bit dumb."

"That's not important," said Sherlock. "Although we might run out of lollies after a while." He took a deep breath. "All right," he said. "You know who I love? I mean who is really really just wonderful?"

"Not Molly again."

"No, someone else."

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Oh! Yes, her too, but no."

"Um... Lestrade?"

"I do love him. He's very good, I mean he tries so very hard. And he's definitely a good man. I admire that about him. Oh, you're right, just saying that is like little stars popping in my head. But do you know who's reallllly wonderful?"

John thought about who Sherlock knew. They were reaching pretty close to the end of the list. Unless he meant John? But that would be an odd way of –

"Jim," Sherlock said at last.

"Who's Jim?"

"Jim, you know."

"No, I – Wait. _Moriarty_? Sherlock, he's your nemesis. Your arch enemy. Also, not to put too fine a point on it, he tried to blow me up."

"Not seriously." Sherlock reached into the bag for another lolly. Then he swung away from John and laid himself out on the carpet, thrusting his feet up into John's lap. "Rub," he commanded. John pulled a face, but did as he was told.

"The thing about Jim Moriarty," Sherlock elaborated around his lolly, "is that no one understands him. But he's like me that way. No one really understands me."

John frowned. "I do."

"No, but I mean _really_ understands. Except for him. We understand each other." Sherlock's eyes slid closed and he groaned happily.

John, on the other hand, felt his own neck tensing up. He wanted to shout, _you can't mean that_ , but he held back. _It's the drugs, that's all. He'll be back to himself in the morning._ Sherlock pulled the lolly from his mouth and went on.

"Jim takes care of me, you see. He knows all about my little strops, because he gets them too. And he'll never let me go too long without a good puzzle to solve, or game to play. It's really very sweet."

Somehow, John managed to keep his mouth shut.

"Also..."

"Yes?"

Sherlock wiggled his toes. "No, I shouldn't say it. Should I?"

John realized they had apparently reached the embarrassing truth telling portion of the evening: if you were high, once you thought of something to say, especially something you oughtn't say, it became almost impossible not to say it. One way or another, Sherlock was going to reveal what was on his mind – not much point in drawing it out.

"You can tell me whatever you want, Sherlock. You're safe here."

"I know. All right. It's just... I've dreamt about him, is all."

"Who, Moriarty?"

"Yes." There was something slightly wicked in Sherlock's grin all of a sudden.

"What kind of dream?" John asked slowly. Sherlock's grin grew bigger and somehow even more wicked. "No," said John. "Really? Like that?" Sherlock giggled.

"Oh," said John. "Just once, though?"

"Oh no," said Sherlock. "All the time. Last week I put myself back to sleep three times just trying to get to the end of one."

"And did you?"

"Oh, yes," said Sherlock fervently. "Do you think he knows?"

"Moriarty? I – I don't know." Familiarity with an acquaintance's dreams would seem far-fetched for most people, but then, Moriarty knew a lot of things. And this, he might certainly have guessed.

"Maybe I should ask him. Where's my phone got to?"

"No! No, Sherlock. Maybe now's not the time." John hesitated, a question hovering on his lips. "Do you – do you have his number in your phone?"

"I have it memorized."

 _Right_ , thought John. _That's what I get for asking_.

"Oh look, here it is!" Sherlock exclaimed, holding his phone up for John to see. "It was in my dressing gown pocket the whole time. Who should I call?"

"No one, Sherlock." John dropped Sherlock's feet and reached his hand out. "Why don't you be a good boy and give me that." Sherlock ignored him.

"You know who I should call? I should call Mummy. She's always asking, and I never do."

"Um, yes. You should, but not now."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, it's three in the morning, which is not a nice time to call most people. For another, and you really have to trust me on this, it would only worry her to talk to you in this... state."

"Why should it worry her? I only want to tell her I love her and how wonderful she is and how lucky I am to be her son."

"Yes, that's what would worry her. Look, Sherlock – It's kind of a law of drugs. You never call your mum when you're high, no matter how good an idea it seems at the time. And as the sober one, it's my job to make sure you obey this law."

"But—"

"How about I make a note of it, okay? We'll call her in the morning, first thing. You can wait until then, can't you?"

"Yes, but in that case can I call Mycroft?"

"No no no no absolutely not, do not call your brother."

"Why? Mycroft's not in your law."

"Mycroft is..." John cast about helplessly, still reaching for the phone. "He's a... a corollary to the law."

"I know how he worries, and I never tell him what a wonderful big brother he is. I get tetchy with him sometimes, but he's always been there for me, even when we were kids and things weren't always – And every time I get into trouble he -- " Sherlock broke off. His eyes were red, and he seemed to be getting a bit sniffly. He lifted his hand. "I'm calling him."

"No! No, it's still the middle of the night, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at John thoughtfully. "I'll just text him, then."

"Um, okay," said John, grateful for the compromise. "But you should probably let me read it before you hit send."

"Okay." Sherlock's thumb moved over the screen.

"And _don't_ tell him you're on drugs, all right?"

"I won't! Wait, what was that first part again?"

"Show it to me before you send."

"Oh. Um. I forgot."

"You – "

"I think I sent it."

"Let me see."

Sherlock handed the phone to John. John flipped to the sent messages folder. The last message to go out was addressed to Mycroft. It read,

_I love you. It's not because I'm on drugs._

"Oh, Sherlock." John couldn't help it. He dissolved into giggles.

"Don't," said Sherlock, withdrawing his feet and hugging his knees to his chest. "Don't laugh at me just because I'm not clever like you are."

John shut up. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock smiled. "It's all right. But can I get up on the couch now? My bottom's sore, and I want to see your face better."

"Of course you can, sweet." There it went again, where was that coming from? John patted the cushion next to him. Sherlock scrambled up on the couch, then stretched himself out along it lengthwise.

"All right, then," said John, feeling rather squished. Sherlock, still with a lolly stick poking out of his mouth, opened his arms and reached for John.

"Come here," he said. "I want to see you."

John cleared his throat a little. But at this point, where was the harm? He scrambled around, disentangling himself from Sherlock's legs, then stretched out next to him. The couch not being very deep, this meant they were lying pretty close to each other. Very nearly on top of each other. John propped himself up on one elbow so he could look down at Sherlock. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him loosely.

"Clever John," he intoned with a kind of reverence. "Kind John. Good, brave John." Sherlock sighed. "You're so pretty," he announced around his lolly. "Have I ever told you that?"

John blushed and laughed a little. "Come now," he said, chucking Sherlock under the chin. "You're the pretty one."

Sherlock removed the lolly and frowned. His lips were stained pink now, from what was presumably a cherry lolly. "Why do you say that? You're not on drugs."

John smiled gently and smoothed the damp curls from Sherlock's face. "I don't need chemicals to see that you're beautiful. It's plain as day."

Sherlock's face relaxed into a huge grin.

"Like right now," said John, forgetting to be careful of his words. He slid a thumb down and pressed it to Sherlock's cheek. "That smile... so gorgeous. I wish I got to see it more often."

"You're smiling too, you know."

"Yes," said John. "You're not the only one who's happy right now."

Sherlock's smile faded, and the expression that replaced it was not one of unhappiness, but of an intensity that made John quail a bit.

"John," he said. "Do you want to try kissing?"

John closed his eyes and held his breath a moment, weighing this offer. They were treading on potentially dangerous ground now, and only one of them currently had the mental faculties to think through the possible repercussions. "Have you ever done that before?" he asked without opening his eyes.

"Kissing?" said Sherlock. "Yes, loads. But never before with anyone I like."

John opened his eyes and looked down at Sherlock's face. The words combined with the guilelessness written there squeezed his heart painfully. He tried to read the history of Sherlock's kisses on his face, but couldn't.

"All right," he said.

Sherlock smiled. "Wait," he said, "I need to – " He removed the cherry lolly from his mouth and tossed it across the room, where it stuck to John's chair. There would be time to worry about that in the morning. "Okay," he said, settling his shoulders into the cushion.

John cupped a hand to Sherlock's jaw and dipped his head a little, brushing their lips together. His intention had been to keep it light and chaste – a quasi-defensible act between friends who found themselves in a chemically compromised state (well, one of them, anyway). But Sherlock's lips were pliable and slightly parted, and John thought – oh _hell_. If I'm going to snog my flatmate, I may as well do it properly.

Sherlock's mouth was sweet – as was to be expected from someone who had recently consumed six lollies. John could taste all the flavors, and underneath it all, a different kind of sweetness entirely. A delicate flame of something like arousal flickered through John's body. After a few moments, he pulled back. Sherlock's eyes were closed.

"Sherlock? How was that?"

The green-grey eyes (irises now almost entirely swallowed by immense black pupils) blinked open. "What?" said Sherlock. "Oh. It was..." He brought a hand up and swiped his mouth across his dressing gown sleeve. "Wet," he said. "Also, has anyone ever told you that your tongue is very... tonguey?"

"No," said John, the flame of arousal abruptly extinguished. "I think that's a first."

Sherlock licked his lips. "My mouth is really _really_ dry."

"Christ," said John. "I should have been making you drink water this whole time. I'm sorry."

Sherlock smiled. "It's okay."

"I'll get you some now."

John pushed himself up off the couch and went into the kitchen. It was 4 am now, a chill had settled on the flat since the fire went out, and his whole body ached from want of sleep. He wondered how much longer Sherlock would keep at this. Still, he couldn't deny that on the whole, the evening had been pretty diverting. He filled up a glass and also a pitcher, and brought them over to Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were closed again, so he set them down on the floor next to him and used the opportunity to run upstairs and freshen up a bit. On his way back down, he saw the fluffy duvet on his bed and on the spur of the moment, grabbed it.

When he reached the sitting room, Sherlock had propped himself up on the couch and was guzzling a glass of water. "This water," he said gratefully, and he poured himself some more.

"Here," said John, wrapping the blanket around Sherlock.

"Thanks," said Sherlock. "What blanket is this? Is it mine?"

"Whose do you think it is?"

Sherlock pulled it tight around his shoulders and nuzzled his face into it. "How should I know?" he said. Then he lifted his head, and a far away glint came into his eye. "Wait," he said. "You were upstairs. And you brought it down. So it must be... it must be _your_ blanket."

"That's right."

Sherlock's face broke into the largest smile yet. "I deduced it!"

John chuckled. "Yes. Very good, Sherlock."

"Very good?"

"Brilliant. Amazing."

Sherlock grinned and opened the blanket to invite John in. John settled in closer to him and wrapped the blanket around them both.

"Is that why you always say nice things when I do deductions?" Sherlock mouthed the question into the side of John's head. "Because it feels good to say nice things?"

John let Sherlock nuzzle closer to him while he thought about this. "Well, sort of," he offered. "Yes. It does make me feel good, because I can see it pleases you. But I also say it because it's true."

Sherlock nodded. "It wouldn't feel so good if it weren't the truth," he affirmed. "John," he said after a moment. "I do like you very much."

"I know," said John.

"It's rather marvelous that we found each other, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is."

"I should have been quite miserable for the rest of my life, if not for you."

This declaration should have made John unutterably sad, but instead for some reason it warmed his blood and made his skin tingle.

"But what about all your other friends?" suggested John. "Molly and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson and Mycroft?" He couldn't quite bring himself to mention Moriarty.

Sherlock pressed his face to John's shoulder. "No," he said firmly. "I love them, but it's not the same."

John lifted a hand and ran it through Sherlock's curls, but this time it didn't get much reaction. That part of the trip was over, and things appeared to have taken a more melancholy turn. Still, it felt nice.

"Do you ever think," Sherlock started. "I mean, do you ever worry – That there's something strange about..."

"About what? About us, you mean?"

Sherlock nodded.

John thought about what had passed between them tonight. It would be hard, in the future, to maintain the fiction that they were "just flatmates", even to himself. And even for best friends, they were pushing things. And yet, what else were they? There wasn't a clear term or definition that came to mind.

"It's a little unusual," John said at last. "But it doesn't worry me. It doesn't have to look like what other people expect, as long as... Well, as long as we're happy, I guess."

"I'm _very_ happy."

"Yes, I know," said John, a little wryly. John, for his part, was happy but also very sleepy. It was tempting to nod off here on the couch, but he knew the sleep would be terrible and he would wake up in pain. How much longer would Sherlock last? He did seem to be winding down a bit. Was there any chance he would let John slip off to bed soon?

"Although," Sherlock was saying, "maybe in the future, we won't store drugs in the tea kettle."

John giggled. "Yes, let's just stick with the usual toes and pigs' bladders."

John felt a rumbling beside him, which bubbled up out of Sherlock into a deep, throaty chuckle.

John pulled back and looked closely at Sherlock. "Hey," he said. "you're coming back."

"Did I go somewhere?"

"Kind of," said John. "Yeah."

"Oh," said Sherlock. His smile dropped and a faint blush colored his cheeks. "Have I been terribly annoying all night?"

"No," said John. "You were lovely. I loved you like this, but I love normal you too, and I missed him – you – a little."

Sherlock smiled again, but more mildly than earlier. "I miss you too."

"I'm right here."

"I know. I didn't mean I miss you. I mean I love you."

John had to look away at that, or risk becoming a bit too emotional for the moment. "I really need to go to bed," he said. "I know you're still a bit stimulated, but do you think I can have my blanket back?"

Sherlock's long fingers clutched into the fabric. "Not yet," he said.

"Um," said John. "Then would it be okay if I took your blanket up to my bed?"

Sherlock gave this some thought. "You can have my blanket," he said. "And my bed."

"And you'll sleep with my blanket in my bed?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'll sleep with your blanket in my bed."

"No," said John. "That's not what I said. I meant – " But Sherlock looked at him with such a soft expression that he couldn't finish. "All right," he said. "Have it your way. After all we've been through tonight – and it is rather a big bed."

\------------------------

John woke up later than usual the next day, but Sherlock was still deeply ensconced in a hard, motionless sleep. John slipped out of bed and treated himself to a very long shower before padding to the kitchen and fixing a large and decadent breakfast (well, brunch... late lunch, really). The smell of coffee and frying sausages at last roused the erstwhile reveler from his slumber, and he trudged into the kitchen with John's blanket still wrapped tightly around his body. His face, on the other hand, wore an expression quite different to the one of placid bliss he had worn last night.

"'Morning, Sunshine," said John. "Coffee?"

"Gallons."

"Drink that orange juice first," said John as he got down a mug. "It will help replenish the nutrients you depleted last night."

Sherlock finished off a glass, then drank two more in quick succession.

"Christ," he said. "Who came in the night and made off with all my saliva?"

John forced himself not to chuckle as he handed Sherlock his coffee. At that moment, a ringing sound emanated from deep within the folds of John's blanket. Sherlock ignored it.

"Phone?" said John.

Sherlock grimaced. "Mycroft," he said. "He's called three times this morning. I'll have to deal with it at some point, but not before coffee."

"Good plan. Do you... Do you want to call your mum?"

Sherlock gave John a dark look. "Really not."

"I thought so."

"You know," said Sherlock, "say what you will about alcohol, but it is a civilized drug. At least it has the decency to let you forget all your indiscretions of the previous night. Whereas this..."

John took a breath. "So you remember everything."

"Oh, yes," said Sherlock with grim stoicism. "Although..." He rubbed at his cheeks and jaw. "Why does my face hurt so much?"

"That'll be the smiling," said John.

"Really? I smiled so much last night it made my _face_ sore?"

"Happens all the time."

"Well. That is rather a strange hangover symptom." He took another sip of coffee and closed his eyes, as if bracing himself for what had to be said next. "Look, John – " he began.

"It's all right," said John. Sherlock looked up. "It's fine. Don't – we've all been there. There's nothing to -- " He hesitated. "It's all fine."

Sherlock nodded gratefully, and they ate in silence for a bit. Then: "Did I really deduce that this was your blanket because you went upstairs to get it?"

John giggled while Sherlock groaned.

"Not my finest hour as a detective."

"Well, you were correct."

"God, if you ever tell anyone – "

"I won't."

"John."

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For... everything."

"I really didn't mind."

"I know, but – thank you all the same. I did have a lot of fun, and – It wouldn't have been half so much fun without you there."

John nodded and sipped his coffee while Sherlock played with his eggs.

"I'm not really eager to experience it again anytime soon. But..."

"But?"

"If _you_ ever wanted to do it, while... while I, you know, sat with you. I could probably get some more."

John smiled and cleared his throat. "I'll keep that in mind."

\----------------------------

Sherlock was a little fuzzy for the rest of the afternoon, and spent it alternating between crap telly and playing his violin. But as John had promised, by evening he was mostly back in form, and just in time to eviscerate Anderson over his misreading of a new crime scene.

It was good to have him back.

Things went back to normal after that, with Sherlock as cool and abrasive as ever, and John barely gave the evening a thought until a couple of weeks later when he was looking through all his drawers for his favorite oatmeal jumper. Suddenly he remembered that the last place he had seen it was when Sherlock was groping it enthusiastically. John went downstairs and searched the whole sitting room, but couldn't find it. It wasn't in the kitchen either.

Sherlock was at Bart's for the afternoon, so after a moment's hesitation, John let himself into his bedroom and glanced around for it there. Perhaps it had fallen under the bed or gotten stuck behind a side table. When it did not turn up in either of those places, on a whim John tugged down the neatly made covers on the bed a little. And there was his jumper, carefully folded among the pillows.

John decided to leave it.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't do drugs. Drugs are bad, mmmmkay?


End file.
